The Hidden City (67 page)

Kalten, moving somewhat woodenly, gently put Alean's clinging arms aside and stepped to the stone rail at the front of the parapet. He spoke in a tongue no human mouth could have produced, and his words
could quite probably have been heard in Chyrellos, half a world away.

Enormous Klæl, waist-deep in the ruins of Cyrgon's Temple, raised his triangular face and roared his reply, his fanged mouth dripping flame.

‘Attend closely, Anakha,' Bhelliom's voice in Sparhawk's mind was very quiet. ‘I will continue to taunt mine errant brother, and all enraged will he come to do battle with me. Be thou steadfast in the face of that approaching horror, for our success or failure do hang entire upon thy courage and the strength of thine arm.'

‘I do not take thy meaning, Blue Rose. Am I to smite Klæl?'

‘Nay, Anakha. Thy task is to free me.'

The beast of darkness below savagely kicked aside the limestone rubble and advanced on the palace with hungry arms outstretched. When he reached the massive gates, he brushed them from his path with a whip of lightning clutched in one enormous fist.

Kalten continued his deafening taunts, and Klæl continued to howl his fury as he crushed his way through the lower wings of the palace, destroying everything that lay in the path of his relentless drive toward the tower.

And then he reached it, and, seizing its rough stones in his two huge hands, he began to climb, his wings clawing at the morning air as he mounted up and up.

‘How am I to free thee, Blue Rose?' Sparhawk asked urgently.

‘My brother and I must be briefly recombined, my son,' Bhelliom replied, ‘to become one again, as we once were, else must I forever be imprisoned within this azure crystal – even as Klæl must remain in his present monstrous form. In our temporary combination will we both be freed.'

‘Combine? How?'

‘When he doth reach this not inconsiderable height and doth exult with resounding bellow of victory, must thou hurl me straightway into his gaping maw.'

‘Do what?'

‘He would with all his soul devour me. Make it so. In the moment of our recombination shall Klæl and I both be freed of our present forms, and then shall our contest begin. Fail not, my son, for
this
is thy purpose and the destiny for which I made thee.'

Sparhawk drew in a deep breath. ‘I
will
not fail thee, Father,' he pledged with all his heart.

Still raging and with his leathery wings clawing at the air, Klæl mounted higher and higher up the front of the palace tower. Sparhawk felt a sense of odd, undismayed detachment come over him. He looked full into the face of the King of Hell and felt no fear. His task was simplicity in itself. He had only to hurl the Sapphire Rose into that gaping maw, and, should a suitable opportunity for that not present itself, to hurl himself – with Bhelliom in his outstretched fist instead. He felt no regret nor even sadness as the unalterable resolve settled over him. Better this than to die in a meaningless, unremembered skirmish on some disputed frontier as so many of his friends had. This had significance, and for a soldier, that was the best one could hope for.

And still Klæl came, climbing higher and higher, reaching hungrily for his hated brother. No more than a few yards below now, his slitted eyes blazed in cruel triumph and his jagged fangs dripped fire as he roared his challenge.

And then Sparhawk leapt atop the ancient battlement to stand poised with Bhelliom aloft in his fist. ‘For God and my Queen!' He bellowed his defiance.

Klæl reached up with one awesome hand.

Then, like the sudden uncoiling of some tightly-wound spring, Sparhawk struck. His arm snapped
down like a whip. ‘Go!' he shouted, as he released the blazing jewel.

As true as an arrow the Sapphire Rose flew from his hand even as Klæl's mouth gaped wider. Straight it went to vanish in the flaming maw.

The tower trembled as a shudder ran through the glossy blackness of the enormity clinging to its side, and Sparhawk struggled to keep his balance on his precarious perch.

Klæl's wings stiffened to their fullest extent, quivering with awful tension. The great beast swelled, growing even more enormous. Then he contracted, shriveling.

And then he exploded.

The detonation shook the very earth, and Sparhawk was hurled back from the battlement to fall heavily on the parapet. He rolled quickly, came to his feet, and rushed back to the battlements.

Two beings of light, one a glowing blue, the other sooty red, grappled with each other on insubstantial air not ten feet away. Their struggle was elemental, a savage contesting of will and strength. They were featureless beings, and their shapes were only vaguely human. Heaving back and forth, they clung to each other like wrestlers in some rude village square, each bending all his will and force to subdue his perfectly-matched opponent.

Sparhawk and his friends lined the battlements, frozen, awed, able only to watch that primeval struggle.

And then the two broke free of each other and stood, backs bowed and arms half-extended, each facing his immortal brother in some inconceivable communion.

‘It falls to thee, Anakha,' Bhelliom's voice in sparhawk's mind was calm. ‘Should Klæl and I continue, this world shall surely be destroyed, as hath oft-time come to pass before. Thou art of this world and must therefore be my champion. Constraints are upon thee
which do not limit me. Klæl's champion is also of this world and is similarly constrained.'

‘It shall be even as thou has said, my father,' Sparhawk replied. ‘I will serve as thy champion if it must needs be. With whom must I contend?'

A great roar of rage came from far below, and a living flame surged up out of the shattered ruins of the chalk-white temple.

‘There is thine opponent, my son,' the azure spirit replied. ‘Klæl hath called him forth to do battle with thee.'

‘Cyrgon?'

‘Even so.'

‘But he is a God!'

‘And art thou not?'

Sparhawk's mind reeled.

‘Look within thyself, Anakha. Thou art my son, and I made thee to be the receptacle of my will. I now release that will to thee that thou mayest be the champion of this world. Feel its power infuse thee.'

It was like the opening of a door that had always been closed. Sparhawk felt his mind and will expanding infinitily as the barrier went down, and with that expanding there came an unutterable calm.

‘Now art thou
truly
Anakha, my son!' Bhelliom exulted. ‘Thy will is now
my
will.
All
things are now possible for thee. It was
thy
will which vanquished Azash. I was but thine instrument. In
this
occasion, however, shalt thou be
mine.
Bend thine invincible will to the task. Seize it in thine hands and mold it. Forge weapons with thy mind and confront Cyrgon. If thine heart be true, he cannot prevail against thee. Now go. Cyrgon awaits thee.'

Sparhawk drew in a deep breath and looked down at the rubble-littered square far below. The flame which had emerged from the ruins had coalesced into a blazing
man-shape standing before the wreck of the temple. ‘Come, Anakha!' it roared. ‘Our meeting hath been foretold since before time began!
This
is thy destiny! Thou art honored above all others to fall by
my
hand.'

Sparhawk deliberately pushed aside the windy pomposity of archaic expression. ‘Don't start celebrating until after you've won, Cyrgon!' he shouted his reply. ‘Don't go away! I'll be right down!' Then he set one hand atop the battlement and lightly vaulted over it.

He stopped, hanging in mid-air. ‘Let go, Aphrael,' he said.

‘What are you
doing?'
she exclaimed.

‘Just do as you're told. Let me go.'

‘You'll fall.'

‘No, actually I won't. I can handle this. Don't interfere. Cyrgon's waiting for me, so please let go.'

It was not actually flying, although Sparhawk was certain that he
could
fly if he needed to. He felt a peculiar lightness as he drifted down toward the ruins of the House of Cyrgon. It was not that he had no weight; it was more that his weight had no meaning. His will was somehow stronger than gravity. Sword in hand, he settled down and down like a drifting feather.

Cyrgon waited below. The burning figure of the ancient God drew his fire about him, congealing the incandescent flame into the antique armor customarily worn by those who worshipped him – a burnished steel cuirass, a crested helmet, a large round shield and a sword in his fist.

A peculiar insight came to Sparhawk as he slid down through the dawn-cool air. Cyrgon was not so much stupid as he was conservative. It was change that he hated, change that he feared. Thus he had frozen his Cyrgai eternally in time and had erased any potential for change or innovation from their minds. The Cyrgai, unmoved by the winds of time, would remain forever
as they had been when their God had first conceived of them. He had wrought an ideal and fenced it all about with law and custom and an innate hatred of change, and frozen thus, they were doomed – and had been since the first of them had placed one sandaled foot on the face of the ever-changing world.

Sparhawk smiled faintly. Cyrgon, it appeared, needed instruction in the benefits of change, and his first lesson would be in the advantages of modern equipment, weaponry, and tactics. Sparhawk thought, ‘Armor', and he was immediately encased in black-enameled steel. He almost casually discarded his plain working sword and filled his hand with his heavier and longer ceremonial blade. Now he was a fully-armed Pandion Knight, a soldier of God – of several Gods, he rather ruefully amended that thought – and he was, almost by default, the champion not only of his Queen, his Church and his God – but also, if he read Bhelliom's thought correctly, of his fair and sometimes vain sister, the world.

He drifted down and settled to earth amidst the wreck of the destroyed temple. ‘Well-met, Cyrgon,' he said with profoundest formality.

‘Well-met, Anakha,' the God replied. ‘I had misjudged thee. Thou art suitable now. I had despaired of thee, fearing that thou wouldst never have realized thy true significance. Thine apprenticeship hath been long and methinks, hindered by thine inappropriate affiliation with Aphrael.'

‘We're wasting time, Cyrgon,' Sparhawk cut through the flowery courtesies. ‘Let's get at this. I'm already late for breakfast.'

‘So be it, Anakha!' Cyrgon's classic features were set in an expression of approval. ‘Defend thyself!' And he swung a huge sword stroke at Sparhawk's head.

But Sparhawk had already begun his stroke, and so
their swords clashed harmlessly in the air between them.

It was good to be fighting again. There was no politics here, no confusion of dissembling words or false promises, just the clean, sharp ring of steel on steel and the smooth flow of muscle and sinew over bone.

Cyrgon was quick, as quick as Martel had been in his youth, and, despite his hatred of innovation, he learned quickly. The intricate moves of wrist and arm and shoulder that marked the master swordsman seemed to come unbidden, almost in spite of himself, to the ancient God. ‘Invigorating, isn't it?' Sparhawk panted through a wolflike grin, lashing a stinging cut at the God's shoulder. ‘Open your mind, Cyrgon. Nothing is set in stone – not even something as simple as this.' And he lashed out with his sword again, flicking another cut onto Cyrgon's sword-arm.

The immortal rushed at him, forcing the oversized round shield against him, trying with will and main strength to overcome his better-trained opponent.

Sparhawk looked into that flawless face and saw regret and desperation there. He bunched his shoulder, as Kurik had taught him, and locked his shield-arm, forming an impenetrable barrier against the ineffectual flailing of his opponent. He parried only with his lightly held sword. ‘Yield, Cyrgon,' he said, ‘and live. Yield, and Klæl will be banished. We are of
this
world, Cyrgon. Let Klæl and Bhelliom contend for other worlds. Take thy life and thy people and go. I would not slay even thee.'

‘I spurn thine insulting offer, Anakha!' Cyrgon half-shrieked.

‘I guess that satisfies the demands of knightly honor,' Sparhawk muttered to himself with a certain amount of relief. ‘God knows what I'd have done if he'd accepted.' He raised his sword again. ‘So be it then, brother,' he
said. ‘We weren't meant to live in the same world together anyway.' His body and will seemed to swell inside his armor. ‘Watch, brother,' he grated through clenched teeth. ‘Watch and learn.'

And then he unleashed five hundred years of training, coupled with his towering anger, at this poor, impotent Godling, who had ripped asunder the peace of the world, a peace toward which Sparhawk had yearned since his return from exile in Rendor. He ripped Cyrgon's thigh with the classic
‘Pas-four'.
He slashed that perfect face with Martel's innovative ‘parry-pas-nine'. He cut away the upper half of Cyrgon's oversized round shield with Vanion's ‘Third feint-and-slash'. Of all the Church Knights, the Pandions were the most skilled swordsmen, and of all the Pandions, Sparhawk stood supreme. Bhelliom had called him the equal of a God, but Sparhawk fought as a man – superbly trained, a little out of condition and really too old for this kind of thing – but with an absolute confidence that if the fate of the world rested in his hands, he was good for at least one more fight.

His sword blurred in the light of the new-risen sun, flickering, weaving, darting. Baffled, the ancient Cyrgon tried to respond.

The opportunity presented itself, and Sparhawk felt the perfect symmetry of it. Cyrgon, untaught, had provided the black-armored Pandion precisely the same opening Martel had given him in the temple of Azash. Martel had fully understood the significance of the series of strokes. Cyrgon, however, did not. And so it was that the thrust which pierced him through came as an absolute surprise. The God stiffened and his sword fell from his nerveless fingers as he lurched back from that fatal thrust.